


Post-it Notes from God

by Love_Letter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Childhood Trauma, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Discussions of theology, Human Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Soul Circles, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:19:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25748032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Love_Letter/pseuds/Love_Letter
Summary: Aziraphale is an angel who works in the Human Souls Division, in the subdivision of Soul Circles. He is one of several angels in charge of caring for soulmates of a romantic nature. There are patterns. There are cycles. There is, suddenly, the file of a soul that doesn't make much sense.When God sends Aziraphale unexpectedly to Earth (quite outside his department!), he must figure out what it means to be human, inspire faith with the occasional miracle, and help Anthony J. Crowley — a pediatric surgeon nearing burnout — to repair his Soul Circle.If only he could receive more than a post-it note's worth of directions...!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 42





	1. It's a Beautiful Day

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought I’d be writing a multi-chapter Good Omens AU, but here I am. Heads up that I know very little about medicine or medical professionals. **Trigger warning** for mentions of death, surgery, chronic illnesses and the hospitalization of children.

  
  


There are people who believe angels are winged creatures that live in Heaven, who dress in fine robes and spend their days dancing among the clouds and playing harps. They imagine these beings are filled with holy love, and that they show their devotion to God by serving mankind, watching over them and occasionally hopping down to Earth to deliver His message to prophets and terrified shepherds in fields. 

Those people are, for the most part, incorrect. 

Heaven was not made of clouds. Very few angels could actually play the harp. Robes were a classic look, but no longer in fashion, and angels served God in much the same way humans worked under a Big Name Brand. There were departments. The “Messenger” department had been revamped centuries ago to become the “Guardian Angel” facility. All angels were aware of their company’s mission statement, but the amount of love and devotion they felt towards the CEO really depended upon the individual. Most of the angels in the office had never actually met Her. 

Angels did have wings, though. 

Aziraphale was an angel who worked in the Human Souls Division, in the subdivision of Soul Circles.1He was one of several angels in charge of caring for soulmates of a romantic nature.2

It involved a lot of paperwork. Cross-checking previous lives and timelines. Phone calls to the front gate on who was coming in and who was going out. He kept himself busy, pleased more than anything when one of his personal pairs had evolved to their highest forms. His work was everything to him, his purpose and his calling-- literally speaking. He had only just been created when the Metatron summoned him to assign him his position. 

Time did not exist in Heaven. Not as it did on Earth. It meant that, should an angel step away from his work, nothing would change. It was merely suspended, ready to be picked up again in the onstreach of eternity. They were free to come and go from the office, to have hobbies, like joining the Lord’s Choir. 

Aziraphale liked to read. Every story that had ever been written was available in Heaven. He loved how humans expressed themselves in words, how they tried to make sense of their connections, fabricated in fiction or real in autobiographical reflection. Occasionally, he checked the author’s beliefs against their records. They were as interesting to him as the books. He was in the middle of one such research task when another angel leaned against the wall of his cubicle, “We’re going out to play frisbee. Want to join?”

Aziraphale glanced up at him. “No, thank you. Maybe next time. Do enjoy yourselves.” 

The angel shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just make sure you take a break at some point.” 

Aziraphale, in his own opinion, was taking a break. He was reading, not organizing. He sighed. Since he had been interrupted, he might as well go make some tea....

* * *

Weddings, Crowley thought to himself at the hotel bar, were a huge waste of money. You could buy a brand new car for the cost of one -- he’d Googled the average cost of both. It made more sense to him to invest that money. Or donate it. Not that his last point particularly applied to _this_ wedding, seeing as the mother of the bride was a millionaire rather known for her philanthropy. 

“I just don’t get why people have weddings.” He said.

The bride herself was standing beside him. “Are we really having this conversation again? Today?” She gave him an incredulous look.

“What? I’m not talking about marriage, just the wedding bit.” They had already discussed, over dinner months ago, how Anathema and Newt did not want a big ceremony. Their wish for a small gathering was shot down by their families. The “whole shebang” was necessary. It seemed like there was press involved from the Device side. 

“No, I know you understand marriage. You’re married to the hospital.”

“Ouch.”

“Can’t you just enjoy yourself for one night?” 

“I am enjoying myself.” He lifted his tumbler of gin towards her. “Cheers.”

She accepted her order of wine from the bartender and clinked their glasses together. “Cheers,” she said. They both took a drink. “I still can’t believe we gave you a plus one and you brought your mom.”

Tracy was not his mother. She’d taken him in off the streets when he was 17. The point was moot. “She likes to party.” She was now on the dance floor, wearing a hot pink feather boa from the D.J. around her neck and lip syncing to Madonna. He had no regrets. She was having a blast. 

“There’s really no one else?”

Crowley snorted, “You just said I’m married to my work. When would I have time for dating?” 

“You have days off. You could make time.”

“Eh. I’d rather sleep.” Romance made about as little sense to Crowley as weddings. Every relationship he’d had growing up had been a mess. He hated talking about it. 

“Aren’t you lon--”

Crowley reached over and grabbed a metal stirrer from behind the bar, clanging it loudly against his glass and raising his voice to shout, “Calling the groom! Come kiss the bride!”

Other guests began tapping their silverware against glasses to echo him. He saw Newt looking around in confusion across the room, unable to find his wife. 

“You could’ve said ‘shut up,’ you know.”

  
  


The celebration went on. Crowley switched reluctantly to water after his second glass of gin. He needed a clear head for driving home and for the 3 surgeries he had scheduled the next day. He stayed until the cake was cut -- despite his suggestion, Newt did not shove the cake into Anathema’s face -- and said good night to the newlyweds. It would be two weeks until he saw Newt back at work. It was a good amount of time. The nurse practitioner needed a vacation. 

Tracy slid her slice of cake from the plate into a napkin, taking it with her to the car. “No eating in the Bentley.” He warned her. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Besides, I couldn’t bring myself to swipe a fork. I’ll eat it at home.”

That was another thing Crowley disliked about weddings: the cake. All presentation, no flavor. Today’s cake didn’t even come with a show. He opened the passenger side door for Tracy. “Don’t drop any crumbs.” 

“I know, I know.”

Crowley had moved out of Tracy’s apartment after he’d completed his residency and stashed away enough cash to buy his own place. Even if he didn’t visit very often, he made sure to invite her out to dinner at least once a month. They messaged more frequently than they met. When he was silent, she did not take offense. He imagined it helped that she’d recently begun dating one of their neighbors. An older gentleman named Shadwell. As he drove, Tracy shared the gossip she had heard at the wedding. He only half listened.

“-- and to think they’re occultists! Ms. Device seemed quite interested in my old seance sessions, but I told her I’ve retired from all that now. Don’t want to flirt too much with death at my age.” 

Crowley shook his head. “You’re still plenty young.” 

“You’re a dear, Anthony.” 

He pulled up alongside the curb outside her apartment. “I had a wonderful time today. Thank you for inviting me. All the best at the hospital this week.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “It looks like a storm is coming. Drive safe on the way home.” 

“I will.”

Tracy let herself out and closed the door, waving at him through the window. He made sure she got inside before pulling back out into the street. Thunder rolled overhead, the rain starting to fall. He turned on the windshield wipers. 

_Aren’t you lonely?_

That had been what Anathema wanted to ask him at the bar, her expression gentle in a way that looked too much like pity. He resented how it made him feel. Like he was missing parts or broken. Like he, who had pulled himself out of the gutters and put himself through medical school to become a leading pediatric surgeon, wasn’t enough. 

There were scarcely any other cars on the road. The rain grew heavier. He put his brights on.

Yes, he was lonely, but loneliness had always been a part of him. A gnawing, desperate ache in the core of his being. It was as much a part of him as his anxiety and depression, but unlike those things, he could not find a treatment that worked in managing it. He compartmentalized. In fact, he considered it one of his strengths as a doctor. Emotional objectivity kept him calm and focused. It was said to help prevent burnout. 

The traffic light flashed yellow ahead of him. He rolled to a stop as it turned red.

He’d lost a patient last week. An infant who had been prenatally diagnosed with congenital diaphragmatic hernia. He had planned for her in the NICU, knew every step he would take to make sure she lived, but her small body did not respond to the inhaled or intravenous medications typically used to decrease elevated blood pressure. She never made it to surgery. 

Green. He put his foot back on the gas. 

Loneliness is a close friend of sorrow. They come together in grief. Lightning flashed across the sky.

Twenty minutes later, Crowley parked his Bentley in the garage and sat staring down at the steering wheel, listening to the echo of the downpour outside. 

He was tired. 

He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. “What’s the point of it all?” He asked. 

He never expected an answer. 

* * *

Aziraphale returned to his desk with tea. He took his seat, set his mug down, and realized there was a new file laid atop his research. Strange. Files didn’t usually appear out of thin air. They were hand delivered with instructions. He lifted the folder and opened it with curiosity. Inside was the profile of a soul, currently a man named Anthony J. Crowley. He scanned the first page: age of the soul, number of reincarnations, areas of growth, most recent birth and location. He flipped to the second page, from where Soul Circle information was typically recorded. 

Anthony’s outer circle was several pages long. Slightly longer than average. His inner circle took up barely one third of a page, and was one of the smallest Aziraphale had ever seen. Had something gone wrong? The subsection was circled in red, and where the name of Anthony’s romantic soulmate would have been, there was a post-it note. His eyes widened when he read it, a shiver of dread and pleasure shooting down his spine, tingling through his wings to the tips of his primary feathers. It wasn’t the words themselves that caused the reaction, but the realization of who had written them. 

_He needs your help._

Aziraphale had never met God, but he had heard Her Voice. He could hear it in the words that entered his mind through his eyes as clearly as a bell’s chime might enter his ears. 

Now that he thought of it, there was, actually, a ringing in his ears. 

Everything went black. 

* * *

Crowley’s first two surgeries of the day went smoothly. He repaired a congenital lung lesion in a three-month old patient, and then performed a minimally invasive Nuss procedure on a six-year-old who was aspiring to be an Olympic gymnast. Crowley didn’t know if her dreams would last beyond childhood, but he was glad to make more room for her to breathe regardless.

He was taking his lunch break, reading through the comics in the paper when someone sat across from him. “Crowley, can I get your opinion on a patient when you’re finished eating?”

He looked up, finding Dr. Alexandra Harting. She worked in the emergency room. A brilliant woman in her 50’s. He respected her immensely. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s the thing. I can’t find anything wrong with him.”

“Come again?”

“They brought him in very early this morning. Found naked on the side of the road, poor thing, completely unconscious. I checked him for injuries, ran blood tests, CT scan, nothing. His vitals are strong with no sign of internal bleeding or brain damage. I had him moved to general care.”

“So he’s comatose?” 

“I think so, but we can’t figure out the cause.”

Crowley took another bite of his lunch, running through possibilities in his mind. “What made you come to me?” He asked. 

“My department came up empty. It makes sense to utilize the other professionals at this hospital.” She said. “You came to mind.” 

He was flattered. “I have about 40 minutes until my next patient comes in.” 

* * *

Aziraphale felt, for the first time in his ethereal life, physically uncomfortable. He was too warm, his arm hurt, and there was a terribly annoying beeping sound he wished would stop. He opened his eyes, squinting up into the bright light of the room. There was a man hovering over him, reading through a handful of papers. On the underside of his clipboard, there was a pink post-it note:

_Do not tell them what you are._

Aziraphale sucked in a breath and tried not to panic. 

He wasn’t in Heaven anymore.

The man looked up at his gasp of air, surprise coloring his face, “You’re awake.”

“Yes?”

He picked up a device from the side of the bed, holding down a button to say, “Can I get a nurse in room 4004?” He returned his attention to Aziraphale, “I’m Anthony J. Crowley, doctor here at St. Beryl’s Hospital. Can you tell me your name and how you’re feeling?”

Aziraphale blinked. Anthony J. Crowley. This was the man he was supposed to help. 

If only he knew what he was supposed to do. 

Anthony stared back at him. “Sir?”

“Aziraphale.” He answered.

“Excuse me?”

“My name,” he said, “it’s Aziraphale.” 

“Aziraphale.” Anthony repeated, checking he’d pronounced it correctly, “Can you spell that for me?”

How _did_ you spell it in English letters? He only knew it in Angelic Script. He tried his best bet. As he offered the last vowel, a woman entered the room. 

“Oh, he’s awake!”

“He is.” Anthony confirmed. “I was just asking him some questions. Would you continue for me?” The woman nodded, coming over to introduce herself as a nurse and accept the clipboard. “Aziraphale, I’m due in surgery now. Veronika will take care of you.” He explained. 

He was already on his way out the door. Aziraphale sat up, worried he wouldn’t be able to find him again. “Will you come back?” He asked. 

Anthony turned in the doorway, “Of course. I’ll check on you later.”

He was gone. Aziraphale frowned. Veronika laid a gentle hand on his back, “It’s good you could sit up. How do you feel?” 

“Confused.” 

“I understand that you must have had a difficult day.” She put her pen to the paper, “Can you tell me your address?”

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Telephone number?”

“I don’t think I have one.”

“A loved one’s phone number, perhaps?”

God didn’t have a phone number, did She? He shook his head again. 

“Don’t worry, Mr. Aziraphale. These details might come back to you. Just rest here. I’ll ask about what tests we can run, see if we can figure out the root of your amnesia.” She held up the device Crowley had used earlier, “Press this button if you need anything. I’ll be back shortly.” 

Alone in the hospital room, Aziraphale looked down at himself. He was hooked up to machines and an IV drip, which was all very unnecessary for an angel. His body had done a good job pretending it was alive in the human way. He removed the annoyances and stood carefully, tiles cold against his bare feet. He stretched his wings, shaking them out in-between realities. Walking to the window, he looked outside. There was a large parking lot, buildings and streets sprawling out in every direction. The sky was a bright afternoon blue. 

He brought his palms together and closed his eyes in prayer, “God, if you can hear me, I think there’s been some mistake. I’m not a guardian angel. I don’t do Earth missions. I have work to do in Heaven, if you’d so kindly help me back up there?” 

He waited, opening one eye to peek if he’d been transported. Unfortunately, he was still in front of the window. Sighing, he let his arms drop and turned around to face the bed. There was a yellow post-it note on his pillow:

_Have faith._

_Go to Room 1103._

The clear directions were very much appreciated. Feeling reassured, he slipped out into the hallway. It only took a moment to orient himself and find the correct corridor. He watched the numbers drop. 1105, 1104, 1103… 

He pushed open the door. The room was dark, curtains drawn, but he could still see it was different from the one he had been in. The walls were painted with a floral motif and there were two beds. Small beds. One was empty, and the other held a child who could not be older than 6 years old. He was sleeping with his own blanket pulled over the hospital sheets, a stuffed toy elephant in his arms. The machine monitoring his vitals beeped softly.

On the elephant was a pale blue note. Aziraphale moved closer, coming to sit on a chair beside the bed. The note read:

_You are here to work miracles._

_Had_ he been transferred to the Guardian Angel department? Miracles that directly impacted the lives of humans on Earth were serious business. Aziraphale only knew the basics. All angels had the potential to twist time and space to make Things happen, but for the most part, those things were insignificant in Heaven. It hardly mattered if you had left your favorite mug at home and transported it to the office. Physics and time were bendy. It didn’t work that way on Earth. There was a proper order to life. A timeline. You couldn’t just move atoms about at will. 

Unless you had explicit consent from the Almighty. 

The child shifted in his bed, opening his eyes slowly. He stared at Aziraphale for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, “Your wings are very pretty.” 

He could see them, which meant he was either young enough to still have his second site, or close enough to death that he had regained it. “Thank you.” 

The child held his stuffed animal closer to his chest. “Are you here to take me away?”

“No, my dear.” He smiled gently, reaching out to lay his hand on the child’s head. He had such little hair, and his skin was lost beneath bandages and wire. Aziraphale wanted to comfort him. “I am here to make sure you stay.” 

As the miracle flowed into him, the boy’s eyes fell closed again. 

* * *

Crowley’s third and final surgery of the day was a success. He was relieved to leave the operating room, although not looking forward to his next patient meeting. He could only deliver bad news to the same family so many times. 

Little James Anderson had been in and out of the hospital several times over the last year. A growing tumor in the cerebellum had impaired his ability to walk and live life like most other children. Its particular placement meant surgery carried a high risk of leaving him paralyzed, if not worse. They had decided not to operate, choosing experimental drugs. They kept the tumor from growing for months. 

James was brought in earlier in the week after having a seizure. Scans revealed the tumor was growing again, spreading close to his brainstem. Crowley and his team had been calling other hospitals across the country, looking for a neurosurgeon who could offer better odds of success for his case. Several offices had requested RMI scans. Crowley had explained to the family that they had done all they could at St. Beryl’s, that James needed very specific help, and they were going to discuss their transfer options that day. 

James’ parents were not in the consultation room. He went and checked if they were visiting. He found them at their son’s bedside. James was wide awake, talking animatedly. Crowley hadn’t seen him that excited in half a year. 

“Dr. Crowley!” He’d noticed his entry before his parents, “I’m all better now!”

Crowley smiled at him, “I am glad you are feeling better today, James. Can I talk to your mum and dad for a little bit?”

“No, really, I’m all better! An angel healed me!”

Ms. Anderson was holding her son’s hand tightly. She lifted her eyes from his small face to Crowley’s, “Maybe the treatment started to work again. I believe him when he says he feels better. His headache is gone.”

There could be a number of reasons he seemed in better condition, but it was unlikely to last long. They’d been here before. Crowley looked to Mr. Anderson. He did a better job of hiding his hope than his wife, but he still asked, “Could we take another x-ray?” 

It could not have changed drastically enough to keep him at St. Beryl’s. Crowley looked down at the folder of other facilities in his hands and said, against his better judgement, “I’ll see if there’s any availability in the radiology department.” 

He could hear James’ voice even in the hallway. “Mum, the angel was so beautiful. I wish you had seen him. He had wings!”

* * *

A miracle. 

That’s what they all called it, looking at James’ MRI results. 

“I’ve got goosebumps!” One of the nurses said. There were some people laughing, others crying. Crowley felt uneasy. He didn’t believe in miracles. Looking at the scans, he felt more baffled than moved. Not only was the tumor gone, but there was nothing to suggest it had ever existed. No abnormal growths or divots. No scarring. It was a perfectly normal brain scan for a 6 year old child. 

They decided to keep James for another week. They would continue to monitor him and confirm he had truly recovered. 

Crowley was on his way to take a break in the cafeteria and enjoy a cup of coffee when Veronika found him, “Mr. Aziraphale is asking after you.” 

He had almost forgotten about the man amongst the day’s developments. “Does he have family coming for him?”

“Not yet. We’re classifying him as an amnesia patient.” She said. “I’ve passed along the information we have to the police department should anyone file a missing persons case. Do check in on him though. I think he imprinted on you like a duck since you were the first person he saw when he woke up. Asked for you at least 5 times.” 

Crowley chuckled, “Thank you for letting me know.”

He did not know what to tell Aziraphale. There was nothing he was able to do to help him. They could only wait and see if he would remember anything. Crowley had been shocked when the man woke suddenly that afternoon. One moment unconscious, the next moment looking up at him with striking blue eyes. It had spooked him, although he would never admit it. That didn’t happen. Comatose patients did not look so aware when they first woke up. It unnerved him in the same way the MRI had. 

He could have been wrong. Misremembering. He had handed off Aziraphale so quickly, it was possible he hadn’t realized how disoriented the man was. He came to a stop outside Room 4004. The door was open. Crowley took a steadying breath and quietly stepped inside. 

Aziraphale was at the window, overlooking the city. Golden light from the setting sun traced his profile and set his pale hair aglow, the curls circling his head like a halo. The sight of him had Crowley’s heart racing against his nerves. He looked like a painting, but the backdrop was wrong. Something didn’t make sense about it. It spooked him-- no, that wasn’t right. A different word. A different feeling. 

What was it? 

Aziraphale turned. When he saw who was standing in the doorway, his entire face lit up with joy, the smile making Crowley’s breath catch. He heard James’ voice as an echo in his mind: 

_Mum, the angel was so beautiful . . ._

* * *

**Footnotes:**

  1. The purpose of a Soul Circle was to place souls together that would maximize each other’s potential for growth. Soul Circles could be reborn together multiple times, although the members might play different roles in each other’s lives each go-round. [ Click ▲ to return to text. ]
  2. Aziraphale’s position had been created after Oedipus Rex slayed his father and married his mother. It was a tragedy that proved there needed to be some buffer of emotions or strategic role choice between rebirths.  [ ▲ ]




	2. Made in Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turns out, 3 parts will not be enough. Upped to 5. I will try my best to update at least once a month. ♡

* * *

“Crowley.”

“Hm?” 

“I prefer Crowley over Anthony.” 

Aziraphale was humbled at the correction. “Thank you for telling me.” 

Crowley’s light brown eyes, almost golden in the setting sun, darted off briefly to the side. “Veronika said you were asking after me.”

“Yes, I wanted to see you again.” He hoped Crowley wouldn’t ask why; he wouldn’t have an answer. 

The doctor went and sat down in the guest chair, gesturing for Aziraphale to take a seat on his bed. “I’ll confess to you that I don’t usually treat adults. One of the other doctors asked my opinion on your condition, which is why I was there when you woke up.” He said, hands clasped in his lap. “I am here for you should you have any questions or worries, but know you can trust every medical professional in this building.” 

Aziraphale had full faith in the other doctors and nurses, but as of yet, he had not been told to help any of them. He only needed Crowley. “I understand,” he said for complacency’s sake. He chanced a look around for any post-it notes. 

“Is there something you needed?”

Crowley had noticed his wandering eyes. “Oh, no, I’m just,” he racked his brain for an excuse, “getting familiar with the environment.” 

“I see. It must be difficult,” Crowley said, “without your memories.”

“Well, without them I don’t really have a point of comparison to tell you if it is.”

His comment startled a laugh out of the doctor. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. I’ll ask Veronika if she’s scheduled you an appointment with our resident psychologist.” 

“Thank you.” 

“It’s my job.” Crowley stood, removing the stethoscope from around his neck. “For today though, my job is finished. I’ll check on you again in the morning. Rest well, Aziraphale.”

“You too.” 

Once Crowley had gone, Aziraphale stood and returned to the window. The new night sky was hazy, not a star to be seen. He did not have a wide first-hand bank of experiences when it came to emotions, as life in Heaven rarely deviated from the norm, but based on the stories he had read, Aziraphale thought he might have felt a little... lonely. 

* * *

It had been a long, strange day. Crowley could not be bothered to cook dinner, stopping by his favorite take-out restaurant on the way home. He ate it straight from the eco-friendly packaging standing at his kitchen counter and staring absently into the dark living room. 

Crowley did not understand people, but he knew about the human body. It had a particular way it worked. If he tapped a hammer below a child’s kneecap, the tendon would jerk, creating an involuntary reflex. There was a reason it happened, and if it didn’t happen, there was a reason for that too. There might have been an injury, a compressed nerve, or something else to be treated. 

Medicine was science. It was finding a means to treatment. Still, the processes tended to follow a pattern, and the divergences of the day were troubling. When Crowley finished dinner, he poured himself a glass of wine and headed for his balcony. It was narrow, just big enough for a small round table, two chairs, and some plants. The August evening was cool, clouds thin against the crescent light of the moon. 

He sat and took a sip of his drink, then set it down to pull his phone out of his pocket. He should let Newt enjoy his honeymoon interruption free, but he also wanted to tell him about James. Newt had worked closely with the boy over the last few months. He texted. 

> **Crowley:** Good news

He did not know if Newt had service where he was vacationing — muchless if he’d be able to hook himself up to the wifi if Anathema didn’t help him — but he continued to type, figuring his message would be seen eventually.

> **Crowley:** James Anderson’s tumor is gone. Must have responded to treatment after all. He was doing great today! Will run more tests later in the week. 

He clicked out of his messages and into his music, choosing a playlist and letting the chords wash over him. Crowley watched the cars drive down his street and wished the air were fresh. He was due to spend some time in nature. 

He’d finished his drink by the time Freddie Mercury started crooning. Crowley did not recognize the song. It must have come up suggested after his shuffle. 

_I'm taking my ride with destiny_

_Willing to play my part_

_Living with painful memories_

_Loving with all my heart —"_ bing! 

Crowley looked down at the message that’d appeared. 

> **Newt:** What a miracle!

Crowley picked up his phone, swiping to unlock the screen. The Queen album playing was titled “Made in Heaven.” He snorted and paused the music. Another message came through. 

> **Newt:** I can’t believe it!

Crowley typed back, muttering to himself, “Me either…” 

* * *

The hospital did not sleep. That was fine, because Aziraphale didn’t sleep either. He imagined he probably _could_ , if he wanted to, but the thought of being unconscious again was disconcerting. He would rather sit up and listen. If he really focused, he could hear what was happening in the floors above and below him. The snoring, the crying, in one case, laughter, quickly quieted in the early morning. When it looked like the sun was near to rising, he slipped out of his room and went unseen to the roof. 

He had not expected to find a garden. There were short trees planted around the perimeter, flowers, and benches lining cobbled paths. In one corner, there was a gazebo under construction. It was lovely. 

“There you are.”

Aziraphale jumped at the voice, turning to find another angel behind him. It was Gabriel, head of the Guardian Angels Department. He was wearing a light gray suit, making Aziraphale feel quite underdressed in his hospital gown. “Thank God I knew where to find you, although I don’t know _what_ you are doing down here.”

“That makes two of us.”

“The Almighty has put you on Earth for a reason. I saw you already performed a life-altering miracle. I assume it was with Her permission.”

“Yes.”

“Good, good.” He strolled forward, clapping both hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Aziraphale, there are some things you need to know about miracles. We go over it in Guardian Angel training, which, I checked your file, you have not been to.”

“I’m not a Guardian Angel.”

“And yet, here you are on Earth.” He did not look pleased. “Listen very closely.” He stepped back, holding up a finger. “One, life-altering miracles are not to be done in front of humans. They can happen in their periphery, but not in plain sight. The reason for that rule is point two.” He held up another finger and said, “such miracles are meant to inspire faith, nothing more. Faith is rooted in _belief_ , not knowledge. When you perform miracles, the channel between yourself and God briefly merges the realms of Heaven and Earth. It means humans can _see_ things they shouldn’t be able to see.”

“Like my wings.”

“Precisely.” He held up a third finger. “Lastly, and this should not come as a surprise, you cannot tell humans anything they wouldn’t already know. You cannot confirm or deny theories connected to any religions. You cannot, under any circumstance, reveal yourself for what you are.” 

“God did mention that last one _—_ ”

He ignored Aziraphale, walking away from him along the garden path. “From what I gather, you might be here for some time. Your mission details are private, but I will be checking up on you. Guardian Angels are not usually stationary. We haven’t had a case like this since Merlin, and that didn’t go well. Messy.” He shivered, wings spreading wide against the breaking dawn. Light streamed through his feathers and his violet eyes were sharp when he turned them back on Aziraphale, “Serve Her well.”

In a blink, he was gone. Aziraphale sighed. He had been told a great deal about what he should not do, and little about what _to_ do. Rules were a poor stand-in for guidance. 

* * *

When Crowley parked his car at the hospital the next morning, Veronika pulled up alongside him. They slammed their doors at the same time, the sound echoing in the lot. Veronika greeted him first, “Good morning, Dr. Crowley!”

“Morning,” he returned. He was not much of a morning type. 

“Have you got a hand?”

“Two, in fact.” 

“Ha ha,” she said, rolling her eyes with a half-smile. “I brought in some of my grandpa’s old clothes. I thought they might fit Mr. Aziraphale, and if they don’t, I can drop them off at a thrift store on the way home.” 

He came around to her as she opened the boot and shoved two paper shopping bags into his arms. Crowley had not thought about clothing. It likely would not have occurred to him that Aziraphale hadn’t so much as a pair of socks to his name until discharge day. It was so rare that patients had nothing with them or brought to them. He looked down into the bags and cringed. “I think the hospital gown might be more fashionable.” 

“There is dignity in wearing trousers.” 

“Is that a _tartan bow tie_?”

* * *

There was a bit of doublethink involved in Aziraphale’s session with the psychologist. He was not allowed to tell her anything. He was also trying very hard not to lie. Lying was bad, but he needed to lie a little to follow his orders. 

“Do you recall anything you like to drink or eat?”

“Well, I do like tea.”

One truth among many omissions. 

“That’s good! You have something there. What feeling does that memory invite in you?”

“Feeling like I want a cup of tea.” 

On and on the process went, questions and answers. 45 minutes that resembled somewhat of its own eternity. When she at last said, “Are you tired, Mr. Aziraphale?”

He said, “Yes.”

“We’ll stop for today then.” She made a final note on her paper and tucked it away in a manila folder. “Given the strength of your health and no brain lesions on your MRI, it could have been a psychological trigger that led to your memory loss. We call this type of amnesia dissociative amnesia. It’s too early to tell how permanent it is. We’ll have another session soon.” She stood, offering him her hand. “Do not stress yourself trying to force the memories forward. If anything comes back to you naturally, please let the doctors know. I will be only a phone call away.”

He shook her hand. “Thank you, Dr. Device.” 1

* * *

Crowley had finished one surgery and one conference by the time Aziraphale finished his session with Dr. Device. He’d managed to get the information from Veronika after suffering a long side-eye and went along with her to deliver the clothing donation, “so he doesn’t feel pressured to accept the style being thrust upon him.” 

Aziraphale, it turned out, did not have fashion sense. It was as lacking as his memories. He was delighted by the old clothes, and when he came out from the ensuite wearing beige slacks, shirt, and vest, complete with the hideous bow tie and a grin so wide Crowley couldn't bring himself to comment on the fact he now looked like a time traveller. 

“It’s a perfect fit! Thank you, Veronika.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Aziraphale,” she said, then excused herself to check on another patient. 

Crowley watched Aziraphale fiddle with his bow tie and admitted to himself begrudgingly that it suited him. “How was your session with Dr. Device?” 

“I told her I like tea,” he said, looking up. “Could I have some with breakfast tomorrow?”

“What kind of tea?”

“Oh, any. A black tea would be nice.”

“I’ll see that it happens.” 

Aziraphale was not Crowley’s patient. He had no reason to keep visiting him, other than the man’s call, and Crowley was not exactly the type to act out of pity. Under normal circumstances, he would have claimed his schedule was too full to accommodate requests outside his division. Yes, he had scheduled fewer surgeries with Newt out, but he’d filled the time with consultations and other appointments. He should not have been where he was standing. Veronika knew that. He knew that. Why did he keep coming back?

“Does the hospital have scones?”

Crowley blinked. “I don’t suppose you remember if you have any allergies?”

“I don’t believe I do.” 

“I’ll try to find you something.”

“Oh, _thank you._ ” 

Maybe it was that smile. He didn’t know many people who smiled like that, as if all the joy was waiting to be found in the world. He had only ever seen that smile on the faces of children. 

It was curious. Technically speaking, he wasn’t a scientist. He still wanted answers. 

* * *

When Crowley left the room to see his next patient and no new note appeared, Aziraphale began to wonder if he’d been mistaken in his original understanding of his mission. He was meant to help Crowley and perform miracles. 

“Perhaps I’m to help Crowley _by_ performing miracles,” Aziraphale muttered to himself, pacing from the window to the bed in his new clothes. The outfit was comfortable and well-worn, the love from its previous wearer still clinging to it like an old cologne. It had been very kind of Veronika to think of him. Humans could be so very sweet. 

A bright yellow post-it note appeared the next time he faced the window, stuck to the panes. Dark letters stood out starkly against the afternoon light that passed through the thin paper: 

_NICU._

Aziraphale knew from his previous strolls through the building that it was the name of a ward. He slipped out into the hall, a cloaking miracle2 keeping him out of sight from those who would stop him on his way. 

The angel thought he knew what babies looked like after they were born. It turned out, some were a little, well, little. He walked around the room, peering into the incubators. Most were empty, but there were three with incredibly small humans hooked up to wires and machines he didn’t understand. The nurse in the room bustled out, leaving Aziraphale alone with them. He waited for directions. 

Crowley arrived before the note. Aziraphale forgot he couldn’t be seen, crouching behind the bed nearest him. He held his breath as Crowley crossed the room towards him and the infant, and when he didn’t react to Aziraphale’s presence, he remembered his cloak and stood tall. Crowley picked up the chart hung on the front of the incubator, read through a couple pages, and placed it back quietly. When his eyes fell on the infant, he spoke, “Hi Sarah. I think we need to talk.”

He stepped away again, going to wash his hands at the sink in the room. When he returned, he sat in the chair by her bed and reached into the case to gently hold one of her tiny hands between the pad of thumb and the tip of his index finger. “We’re worried about you. Your moms, the nurses, and me. You’ve gotta help us out here. Keep those nutrients in. Put on a little more weight.”

The infant did not move, the rise and fall of her small chest too shallow to be visible. 

“There’s people who want to meet you. People who already love you— so many that I had to stop them from visiting. This isn’t a party room, you know,” Crowley joked softly. “If you want to party, you need to be able to leave here.” 

Aziraphale watched the tender smile on Crowley’s face fall, making his heart ache. 

“I know, it’s tough, but you made it this far. You’re strong. I can’t promise the world is all sunshine and rainbows, but there’s good stuff out there. You deserve the chance to experience it. Keep fighting. We’re here for you.” Crowley sighed, lowering his face to be parallel to the child’s, his voice impossibly softer, “I want to see you go home, to your own crib. It’s waiting for you. You have a family waiting for you.”

Aziraphale sat down on the other side of the infant, reaching his hand in to copy Crowley’s action. Tiny fingers twitched against his. The baby turned her head his way, although her eyes remained closed. Aziraphale smiled. She was alive. She would live. 

“Good afternoon, Crowley.” The nurse who had been there earlier was back. “Checking in on Sarah?”

“Yes. She had the roughest start. How are the others?”

“Doing well. I think we’ll be able to release Madhav this week.”

Aziraphale listened to their conversation, never taking his eyes off the baby. She was a miracle all on her own. He wondered what sort of person she would become, what sort of impact she would have on the lives of the people around her. 

Eventually, Crowley left. Aziraphale used his powers to nudge the nurse into checking the supply closet’s glove inventory. When he was alone, he found a light green post-it note on the side of Sarah’s incubator:

_Give her strength._

He gave her that, and his blessing too. 

* * *

The next morning, Crowley stopped by one of his favorite bakeries on the way to work. He ordered his usual coffee and breakfast sandwich, and added in a cup of Earl Grey tea and two scones, complete with a side of clotted cream and jam. Strictly speaking, he should not be giving any patient with an unknown medical history food from outside the hospital; however, if one _were_ to have an allergic reaction to something, inside a hospital was the place to do it. He rationalized it by arguing familiar food could trigger memories. Senses were wired like that. 

Crowley snuck his contraband into room 4004. Aziraphale’s face lit up when he opened the paper bag offered to him, and his delight was worth the risk of judgement from other staff. 

“This is such a treat! Thank you, my dear.” 

“Don’t mention it— really, don’t. It could get me in trouble.”

“Whatever for?”

“Allergy risks.” He sat down at the small table in Aziraphale’s room. “I’ll stick around while you eat, make sure you don’t break out into hives or stop breathing.” 

Aziraphale sat down opposite him. “I see. Thank you for indulging me, then.” 

He shrugged. “Figure it’s the least I can do.”

Crowley tried not to stare at Aziraphale as he ate, the way he delicately buttered his scone with the plastic knife and puckered his lips when he tasted the tart jam, moaning in a way that would have been comical if it didn’t sound so indecent. He did not comment on it. Aziraphale was enjoying himself. 

“The tea is just perfect too! Not too hot, seeped just the right amount of time.” 

“Yeah, they do a decent job at that bakery.”

“You’ll have to bring me there.” 

“Sure.” Crowley knew he was wandering into more dangerous territory. “When you’re out of here, maybe when you remember a bit more.”

“I look forward to it.”

There were several things that made Aziraphale strange. As he sipped his tea, closed his eyes, and smiled, Crowley pinpointed one of them: he was deeply content. Despite memory loss that suggested emotional trauma, he was not alarmed by it, or frustrated by the missing parts of himself. Anxiety was a common symptom of amnesia. Aziraphale seemed fine, at least outwardly. It was as if he were in no rush to remember his life. He existed in the moment. When he finished off the last bite of scone, Crowley asked him, “How are you feeling? Any itchiness, swollen tongue, shortness of breath?”

“Nothing of the sort.” He wigged in his seat, bringing the tea back to his lips. “I do feel quite warm and fuzzy though, in a good way. Happy. Thank you.”

Aziraphale’s confession made Crowley feel itchy, like his skin was too tight on his body. What the hell was wrong with him? He cleared his throat and stood suddenly, mumbling out his excuses, “Like I said, don’t mention it. I have to get ready for surgery. See you later, Aziraphale.” 

“Until then,” he answered, lifting his cup in a parting toast. 

Veronika caught him in the hallway, too-knowing grin on her face, “Visiting Mr. Aziraphale?”

“Ngk.”

“There is something welcoming about him, isn’t there?”

“Yeah, welcoming.” It was not the word Crowley would have chosen, but he’s not sure he would have bothered to put a word to the emotion at all. In any case, he was too old to be teased and he had other places to be. “Gotta go.”

“His next therapy session is from 3pm today.”

Crowley pretended he didn’t hear her, making a bee-line for the pediatric wing and his actual first patient of the day. 

  
  
  
  


The days slipped by in a similar manner, Crowley bringing Aziraphale breakfast, visiting him between appointments, questioning his own sanity afterwards. He knew it wasn’t only him; there were other staff at the hospital who enjoyed Aziraphale’s company too. He was always pleasant, offering his smile and gentle words. There was a sense of peace where he went that quelled the rush and high tension of the environment. 

“We didn’t lose a single patient this week in the ER,” announced Dr. Harting at lunch on Friday. 

“Congratulations,” said Crowley. He thought of his own department and realized, “I’ve been lucky too.” 

“Oh?”

“Surgeries went well, recoveries going smoothly, the like.”

“CHKS awards, here we come.”

The doctor eating his lunch beside them knocked on the table top. Crowley did not point out it was made of plastic. 

* * *

Aziraphale was becoming accustomed to life at the hospital. He was friendly with the staff and several patients, made his rounds for miracles, and spent a great deal of his evenings on the roof, watching the skyline and the faint traces of starlight in the darkness, waiting until the sun would rise with breathtaking colors— sometimes, it didn’t. That’s what made it so exciting. The sunrise was predictably beautiful in Heaven. In London, there were rain clouds even at dawn. The city was just as fascinating in fog. It was a pleasure to see life play out before his eyes, so much more vivid than in his imagination. 

He did not know that his time at the hospital would have an end decided by the humans, that it wasn’t possible to stay there indefinitely. It was Dr. Device who broke the news to him two weeks into his stay. 

“We’re going to prepare you as best we can for discharge, Mr. Aziraphale.”

“Discharge?”

* * *

“You can’t just send him to a homeless shelter!”

The flare of anger Crowley felt was irrational. He knew, logically, that beds were limited and patients without serious symptoms should be discharged, but Aziraphale wasn’t the usual patient. He had no family; at least, not any that had come forward to claim him. He had no life to return to.

Gloria, who usually handled the paperwork for his patients, was looking at him with concern. “Crowley, he’s homeless.” 

“I’ll take him home.” The words had hardly formed in his brain before they were out of his mouth. Several heads turned his way. He felt his face heat up. 

“You can’t just take a homeless man home.”

_You can’t just take a kid in off the street, Marjorie. What were you thinking?_

Crowley steeled his resolve. “Yes, I can.”

“You—”

Veronika stood from her chair, coming to lay a hand on Gloria’s shoulder. “Trust that Dr. Crowley knows what he’s doing.”

She looked between the two of them and huffed. “Seriously?”

Veronika smiled. “I’ll handle the discharge forms.” 

* * *

Aziraphale knew the word “awkward,” but he had not seen it in action until Crowley came to visit him after his appointment with Dr. Device. The pediatric surgeon was shifting uncomfortably on his feet, sitting once on the bed, only to leap up and begin pacing, hands clasped tightly behind his back. 

“Crowley?”

“You’re being discharged.”

“I heard.”

“You don’t have anywhere to go.” 

“Dr. Device told me she’ll write a referral to someplace called a hostel.”

“You don’t, I mean, I—” he attempted to sit down again, this time in the guest chair. “You could stay with me, instead. If you’d like.”

The surprise he felt must have shown on his face, because suddenly Crowley was on his feet again, waving his arms. “You don’t have to. It’s just an offer. I don’t feel like a shelter is the right place for you right now, without your memories.”

Kindness, Aziraphale knew, did not come naturally to all humans. He knew his presence had a positive effect on them — all that holiness will do it — but he did not want Crowley to do more than he was truly comfortable doing. “Why would you do that for me?”

“Because,” he shrugged, losing some of his steam, “someone did it for me once. I think they call it ‘paying it forward’ or something.”

Aziraphale wanted to know more about Crowley’s story, from the very beginning to the yet unwritten end. He looked up at the ceiling, to the note waiting for him:

_Go with him._

He lowered his gaze again, looking into Crowley’s expectant face. “I’d love to stay with you.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Footnotes:**

  1. Amora Device. Cousin of one Anathema Device, wife of Newt in Pediatrics, herbalist and general avoider of the modern clinical setting. [ Click ▲ to return to text. ]
  2. There are tiers of miracles. A cloaking miracle* would fall under the category of a minor miracle. These miracles are performed using the angel’s own divinity and are little more than the manipulation of perspective; a mere suggested thought into the mortal mind, the inspiration behind that “gut feeling” one sometimes has. For example, Aziraphale’s cloaking miracle proposed to those around him that he was not any person worthy of a second glance, muchless a first one. 

*It is said that animals are immune to cloaking miracles. 

[ ▲ ]




End file.
